We No Speak Americano: The Sweetest Thing
A few weeks into my exchange, I became acquainted with theKing Arthur Flourcinnamon puff — a mixture of dough, sugar and spice that can only be described as a little ball of heaven.
The first time I grasped a cinnamon puff in my hand was like holding a newborn baby in my arms. I gazed down at it, loved it, treasured it, cradled it tenderly, all before promptly devouring it and licking clean the paper bag.
Thus began my love affair with the luscious treats. However, my addiction to the sweet, sugary goodness reached such a point that I was admitted toDick’s Housewith extreme stomach pains that practically left me unable to move. So concerned were the medical staff with my condition that I underwent an X-ray and an Ultrasound, only to have a team of radiologists confirm that — indeed — the ominous mass in my small intestine was none other than a load of undigested, stubborn cinnamon puffs.
So this is how I ended up keeping a food diary here at Dartmouth, and the records are, quite frankly, rather embarrassing. Because I realize now that it’s only thanks to a super-fast metabolism that I am not the size ofJabba the Hut. Especially when I’ve somehow managed to polish off two sugar cookies whilst writing the above text.
Since coming to America, I have experienced the glorious sensation that is the Foodgasm: when there’s a party in your mouth, and the DJ’s playing“Levels”. My diet back in Britain was positively medieval in comparison to the foray that is served here in the States: porridge (that’s genuine oatmeal), potatoes and pottage. And black pudding on Sundays — if you don’t know what that is, don’t Google it.
But here you have at least four types of pizza, hash browns, cake, muffins, crispy bacon, sausage links, pancakes, chicken nuggets, fries and (deep breath) FRENCH TOAST STICKS. My mouth waters as I type. I wish it were breakfast already. My reasoning is that since I’m only here for a term, I’d better make the most of it and indulge in ice cream coated waffles with fudge sauce and marshmallows every evening.
But the pains in my chest have increased, and it hurts to walk, so I have been forced to find other means of being healthy. Four times a week in Edinburgh I attended Jab, Kick and Burn, a class which involved doing taekwondo to the tracks of Christina Aguilera, if such a thing can be imagined.
But it took five weeks for me to make it to theAlumni Gymhere at Dartmouth because going to a new place to exercise is scary, especially when the gym is so frickin’ huge it takes you ten minutes to locate the squash court (I totally meant to end up in the men’s locker room). And don’t pretend that you aren’t checking out fellow gym users — you saw me struggling with the treadmill, trying to locate the ‘on’ button for about half an hour. And yes, that was me tangled up in the True Stretch Cage, I don’t quite know what I was doing in there.
In the end I gave up and did some gentle lunges. I may or may not have torn my hamstring.